


Things Unsaid

by kriari (kadielkrieger)



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-31
Updated: 2010-12-31
Packaged: 2017-10-22 00:02:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/231363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kadielkrieger/pseuds/kriari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jensen loses a bet and ends up accompanying Misha on a monastic retreat in Thailand. Also known as: a comment fic in response to <a href="http://community.livejournal.com/jensen_misha/117053.html?thread=391485#t391485"> this prompt</a> that got out of control.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Things Unsaid

  
Of all the things Jensen had planned to do with the six weeks of freedom otherwise known as hiatus, spending five days in transit wasn’t one of them. Travelling, especially internationally, means getting felt up at the airport and suffering through the long lines at customs, spending way too much time at the mercy of his fellow passengers' inevitably cranky dispositions. Jensen doesn't begrudge them; twenty hours in the air will do that to anyone.

At least he’d had the foresight to ask about the arrangements. The non-answers and subject changes he’d gotten in response to even the most subtle versions of the question were more than enough to make him nervous. And by the time he had a chance to call and "confirm", all but three of the first class suites on their flight were already occupied. Flying coach to Thailand is the kind of insane he’s not actually obligated to endure.

Unfortunately, the ten days of silence are.

A promise is a promise though, the stakes clear when he’d shaken Misha’s hand and ignored the dangerous gleam in his eye. If he’d won, if they’d found themselves on the other end of this grossly unbalanced equation, everything would be different right now. But it isn’t. So instead of wind-surfing off the coast of Lahaina or strolling the links at Spanish Bay, he’s sitting at Vancouver International drinking coffee while he still can, dreading the flight at least as much as the overnight train ride that will follow, and waiting for Misha to make an appearance.

It doesn't take long. Jensen's only halfway through the new Drag the River album Chris sent him and less than halfway through his compulsory crowd scan when something soft and cold hits the back of his neck. As is his lot in life, soft and cold turns quickly to cold and wet, streams of what can only be melting snow sticking shirt to spine. It says a lot, Jensen thinks, that he doesn't have to turn around.

Technically, he doesn't have to pop the buds out of his ears either but he does, says, "Misha," and slips the headphones in the outside pocket of his backpack.

Misha, being Misha, beams as he settles himself into the middle of the three-seater facing Jensen and proceeds to explode. In the space of ten seconds, he manages to conquer the seats to his right and left with his own misshapen pack and parka. He even leans in to slap the last of the slush pooled in his palm cheerfully against Jensen's thigh.

"What gave me away?" Misha asks, brows quirked with faux innocence.

Jensen wisely suppresses a sigh and beams back, adding another tick mark to the "Take Swift and Decisive Vengeance" column of the mental record he'll be keeping over the next two weeks.

"Only you would go to the trouble of finding a way to smuggle snow through security when there's a fully functional food court with about a thousand cubic feet of ice not fifty feet away," Jensen says.

Misha swallows a laugh and says, "Where would be the challenge in that?" like the alternative is unthinkable.

Sometimes Jensen wonders if Misha realizes just how predictable he can be. And, not for the first time, Jensen also wonders if Misha's the right person to follow to a remote village in Thailand.

Probably not.

"Ask me that when you're laid up in some third-world hospital because you ate deep-fried bugs and I'm bailing on your sick, sorry ass."

Misha's eyes soften with some indecipherable emotion as he strips off his thin gloves, the skin beneath damp and dangerously pink. Jensen has the sudden, overwhelming urge to grab them, rub them warm between his own even though he knows that's the worst possible thing to do for frostbite. He's staring, a fact he recognizes only when Misha flexes his fingers and cups them over his mouth to blow, the smirk that sneaks out around the edges so annoyingly smug it makes Jensen think about packing it in. Again.

To add insult to injury, Misha doesn't let it go, but says, "Because that would happen," then folds his hands together to shove them between his knees.

And just like that, the ten day vow of silence becomes more blessing than curse.

***

By the time Jensen's sitting opposite a monk for his entrance interview, the blessing has compounded itself threefold. His senses are all dulled down to that twilight of impossible sleep deprivation and he's suffering at the hands of the jet lag that inevitably accompanies a trip across the International Date Line. However, neither of those conditions takes into consideration the three times Misha woke him between Seattle and Hong Kong, the two between Hong Kong and Bangkok, or the constant stream of nonsensical coaching that had drifted up from the lower bunk of the sleeper compartment that carried them south to Chaiya.

Only now, with nothing but a coarse woven mat between his ass and the timeworn stone, does Jensen suspect foul play. As much as he presumes to know Misha, Misha also knows him, knows without a doubt that when pushed and strung out he'll produce the desired responses without question or thought.

And he does. The key phrases that Misha fed to him in the wee hours of the morning tumble out and before Jensen has a chance to change his mind, the monk across from him rises to welcome him and wave someone over to show him to his room.

Standing in the doorway beside a slim, dark man named Jao, Jensen seriously contemplates bolting for a third time.

The "bed" is a raised concrete ledge, the curtain of mosquito netting drawn around it thin enough to reveal a simple woven mat like the one in the entrance office but no mattress. There's a block of wood situated at one end he can't figure out despite the shallow hollow carved into the upturned side. What there isn’t is a bathroom or shower, though his eye catches and holds on a pot tucked into the corner of the tiny space with a bone deep panic that takes a second to shake off.

Even though the retreat - and thus the silence - doesn't officially start until they sit down for the evening meal, Jensen doesn't trust himself with words. So he simply nods to Jao and sets the small bundle of things he was allowed to keep on the slab where he'll apparently be sleeping for the next ten days. No matter what it costs in comfort, he refuses to give Misha the satisfaction of spooking him back to LA.

He can do this.

At least...he thinks he can. His bright cluster of toiletries looks woefully out of place against the utilitarian stretch of stone and Jensen finds himself at a loss again, arms full of T-shirts and warm-up pants that have no home. He's torn, trying to decide between dropping them back at the foot of the bed and MacGyvering them into a cushion to sleep on when a shadow drifts past the open doorway and stops.

"Unless they've changed the rules since I was here last," the shadow says, "there's not one that demands you keep your worldly possessions on your person at all times."

"Thanks," he responds, tossing a glance back over his shoulder. "I'll keep that in mind."

Jensen can feel Misha's smile, and his resolve to make this work slips.

"I think you'll find the line might help."

"What li-" he starts, pressing his lips together when he spies the crudely braided length of twine stretched from one end of the opposite wall to the other, a few cheap plastic hangers dangling in the middle.

It takes a minute to position his clothes so the rope will take their weight without stressing the knots that anchor it, but eventually Jensen gets every last stitch hung. With his hands busy, he forgets Misha's there, the silence so absolute he'd have guessed Misha moved on if not for the familiar tingle on the back of his neck.

Jensen snorts when he turns to find Misha sitting cross-legged on the bed, staring.

"Anyone ever tell you you're a creeper?" he says, tossing a pair of socks at Misha's head. It sails past his shoulder, gets tangled momentarily in the netting before rolling back across the floor to rest at Jensen’s feet.

"I question your conviction," Misha says, face serious and eyes flashing. "The least deadly thing I've ever had lobbed at my head on the heels of that particular question is a staple gun."

As usual, Jensen can't quite tell if he's joking and for a moment he worries at it, bile in the back of his throat that he can't explain away or swallow around. The idea that it might be one of Misha’s glibly conveyed but horrible truths makes Jensen want to break things. Considering where they are, the oppressive concrete walls and fixtures, the closeness of the air, he thinks better of it. A change of subject seems the more viable alternative. And at the end of the day, Misha’s probably full of shit.

"So," he says slowly, the ‘O’ rounding out to alarmingly Texan shapes, "you planning to tell me what we're doing here? Because, gotta say man, I've got a three car garage at home that'll blow your fucking mind if you get your rocks off sleeping on slab. It's a hell of a lot cheaper and not halfway around the world."

Misha breathes before he answers, staring off into the middle distance like he just might trying to decide which line of bullshit will get him the most bang for his mockery buck. Maybe though, maybe he doesn’t know. They’ve talked about it before, Misha ardent and Jensen skeptical but willing to indulge the flight of conversational fancy for Misha’s sake. Even though he’d only been half listening at the time (because fuck if Misha doesn’t talk out of his ass more often than not), Jensen remembers the way Misha’s face smoothed into something transcendent when he described his time in retreat.

Maybe he’s nervous, preparing for the worst. Maybe he’s waiting for Jensen to turn the ten days every year that really _mean_ something to him into a joke or burden. Jensen never considered what Misha might be giving up to include him or the intimacy implied by Misha’s willingness to do so.

Usually, Jensen’s not that kind of asshole. Well, no, that’s not entirely true. He’s still a dude after all and oblivious half the time, but he doesn’t do it on purpose.

Eventually, Misha flashes him a smile that’s two parts genuine and one mischief.

“Why Jensen,” he says, “are you inviting me to a sleepover? Sorry to burst your bubble, but my hair isn’t long enough for pigtails anymore.”

This, Jensen’s learned, is Misha-speak for: _witness my benevolence, I’m offering you an out_.

For some reason unknown to both God and man, Jensen doesn’t want it. Not now. Not when Misha so obviously wants to talk about it and they’re stuck here together in the middle of the Thai wilderness with that ten-day stretch of _not_ talking laid out in front of them. He’d rather get while the getting’s good - even if the getting thrusts him into the borderlands of chick-flick moments. Misha catches on fast, probably sensing the hesitation before Jensen does and it’s just as well that there’s a cluster of dried leaves between his feet to hold his attention when the light goes on behind Misha’s eyes.

Still.

Jensen says, “No,” and “really” and makes both as neutral as possible before settling himself next to Misha to listen.

“I have no earthly idea why you’re here,” Misha says finally, voice pitched low. “This keeps me sane.” He laughs. “Sane-ish. It reminds me who I really am. Gives me time to sift through the clutter without constant distractions. Don’t know if you noticed, but distraction is sort of my modus operandi.”

Jensen blinks but holds his tongue, leaning across the last two inches to bump their shoulders together in what he hopes comes off as solidarity. With Misha, meanings are better expressed through specificity than abandoned to the wilds of interpretation. Unfortunately, Jensen’s not currently willing to derail Misha’s train of thought.

Anyway,” Misha continues, “I consider it internal remodeling time. Something that makes me face me and take stock of how far from center I’ve strayed over the course of a year. It’s different every time, though. So I guess, above everything, I’m here to be surprised.”

In the silence that follows, Jensen tries and fails to find the right words for what Misha’s honesty means, how unexpectedly privileged he feels for the opportunity to share this - as much as anyone can share such a deeply personal experience. His intentions twist together though, and back on each other until he can’t determine where to begin, much less how.

And then Jao’s there, still and silent, his shadow stretched across the stone as he informs them quietly, forcefully that their evening meal is being served in the hall and that he will escort them there. Now.

***

One of the things they neglect to tell you in the pamphlets is how much of a pain in the ass the perfect state of zen is. Jensen likes to think he's gotten fairly adept at both sitting and waiting considering how much of it he does on set. Here though, there are no canvas slings to slump into, no trailer to retreat to when a few minutes draw out to an hour. There's just the residue of silt on the knees of his warm-up pants and a dull ache in his tailbone from where it's gotten intimately acquainted with the hard-packed earth beneath. As much as he prides himself on following instructions, his mind's not so much clearing as it is protesting - loudly.

For the vast majority of people, the most profound adjustment is probably the pre-dawn wake-up call, the chill in the air more urgent than the sounds of nocturnal wildlife finishing up their business in the encroaching trees. That, at least, comes easy to him. His schedule has never been what could be considered normal, and the fact that he gets to wake up at the same time every day and go to bed at the same time every night has some appeal. If not for the silence and the unorthodox hygiene facilities, it could almost be a vacation.

Except it isn't.

It's an odd fact to come up against, thirty-two years into his life - that he thinks too much, too loudly to ever be a natural at this. In the space where he's supposed to be creating silence, his brain rebels, goes kamikaze into the depths of an analytical, self-conscious place he never knew existed. And so not only are his aching joints staging a full-blown revolution, but all he can think about is how easy it seems for everyone else.

His pants crinkle and scrape, the sound of nylon against sand deafening when he shifts position for the twentieth time since the sitting meditation began. Time ceased to hold its anchor when they took his watch, so Jensen has no concept of it beyond the fact that the bell hasn't tolled for breakfast yet.

When he risks a glance to his left, Misha looks none the worse for wear - his muscles drawn tight and ready but not tense. The shirt stretched across his abdomen shifts rhythmically as he breathes through the exercises. And the only thing that keeps him from being the picture of a perfect student is the indecipherable wink that crinkles at the corner of his eye when he catches Jensen looking.

Jensen smiles, can't help but smile as Misha makes a weird swirling motion with a finger that can only mean he, of all people, is chastising Jensen for not paying attention. For an impossible second, Jensen doesn't feel halfway around the world and completely out of his element. There's no way Misha could have known he needed a touchstone and yet there it is, offered freely.

The last ten minutes of the session fly by.

***

  


On the fifth day, Jensen dreams of being dead. The temperature plummets at night, the concrete beneath him only retaining a fraction of the day’s warmth, so it’s not a far stretch from a mortuary. More than once he’s thought about giving up and wandering into the jungle to scream himself hoarse before hoofing it into town to catch the train.

He knows better than to think he’ll actually follow through. He won’t. If he could blame it on the strict vegetarian diet or a complete mental breakdown, he would. The truth is far more damning.

Misha keeps him here.

Not with words, obviously, but by being this other person – a shiny new puzzle for Jensen to solve. Or so he's led himself to believe. Even that may be more due to the absence of Misha's constant, rambling monologue than it is any real difference.

As the bell tolls to summon him to morning meditation, Jensen acknowledges he’s no closer to those answers than he was on day one and that maybe, just maybe, the carefully kept silence is driving him insane.

***

By day eight, Jensen finds a rhythm. It thumps along more slowly than he’s used to, but it’s there nonetheless. If nothing else, he’s learned to mark time using the sun’s arc across the sky instead of depending solely on a watch so he knows he has at least ten minutes to sweep out the meditation room before another bell announces the evening meal. He lets the scrape of straw lull him into a trance, but the quiet is so complete, his sense of hearing so attuned he couldn’t possibly miss Misha’s entry.

They exchange nods and smiles like they have for the last week – the typical barbs set aside by necessity. And when Misha shuffles through the modest pile of dried grass and dust Jensen’s swept together, Jensen takes a half-hearted swipe at him with the broom instead. This is part of the new cadence, Misha watching him work, Misha standing too close, Misha sitting next to him on that unforgiving bunk, their shoulders pressed together.

Stripped back to bare bones by the hours of enforced introspection, there are some uncomfortable truths that have turned into something a bit more comfortable.

Jensen’s not sure yet what to make of it, but when he plants an elbow in Misha’s ribs to brush him back further, Misha grins and slaps a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss on his cheek. Outside, that eternally ringing bell tolls again. And as Jensen watches Misha wander away, he figures maybe he’s not supposed to be sure.

***

The sun dips low between the trees trailing a rosy pink curtain that Jensen wants to reach out and yank down. With less than twelve hours between him and a return to normalcy, he can admit his gratitude despite the itch under his skin pushing him back to civilization. Between filming the show and filling his summer with either movie or voice-over work to supplement the dozens of conventions, he can't remember the last time he's been truly unplugged. Like it or not, he does feel more centered, more _Jensen_ than he has in a while.

Not that he'll ever tell Misha. Whether it’s the result of an ill-conceived bet or not (because apparently 64 ounces of steak is beyond even Jared’s considerable gastronomic abilities) he knows better. The simple knowledge that he'd been right to demand Jensen do this would inevitably cause a rift in Misha space-time and he'd collapse beneath the weight of his own ego. So really, the omission of this single truth is in Misha's best interest. And Jensen's.

He's kind of gotten used to having Misha around.

Even now, he can feel the absence where Misha should be - the chill creeping up his side, the lack of charge on his skin. If he had sense left to bargain with, Jensen would offer it in trust to be able to deny the effect Misha has. But he doesn't have a scrap to spare. Instead he knocks the sand out of his shoes and winds his way back to what he's begun to think of as the barracks. He goes because he needs to work out where the final progression of this achingly unresolved chord is taking them before Misha's allowed to use his words to drag them down into din.

It's a mission promptly derailed by the fact Misha's not in his room. Or the meditation hall. Or washing his clothes at the well in the courtyard. Their eight o'clock curfew curtails a more exhaustive search, so when the fifteen minute warning chimes across the grounds, Jensen makes for his own room with the damned diminished ninth still buzzing at the back of his brain.

He shrugs out of the hoodie he's been wearing as soon as he hits the door, tossing it vaguely in the direction of that curved block of wood he's since found out is supposed to be a pillow. Usually, the zipper clanks against the opposite wall, offering him a general direction to start groping when he lies down. This time, a grunt is all that greets him.

A grunt and Misha's smile, his eyes sparkling in the dim shaft of light that filters in from outside. Luck nearly undoes Jensen, his lips already moving, throat already working around the things he wants to say before Misha presses a palm against his mouth. That ninth sings up his spine, throbbing at the base of his skull with a quiet, insistent hum. Then Misha's thumb sweeps in under his chin and the chord resolves to G major with Misha's shoulders slapped flat against the wall, Jensen's hands curled around them.

Right now, Jensen doesn't give a shit about rules - the vow of chastity coupled to the silence. He wants to say the things he never could, wants to learn what Misha's skin tastes like when he's gone a little wild, wants to be the reason Misha's hair won't behave. If he truly cared, which some small part of him always will, Jensen might wonder whether this is a sacrifice Misha's willing to make. While _he_ may not be in any hurry to come back, Misha will be in a year's time and if they get caught they'll surely be barred from ever returning.

Jensen knows there are other monasteries. Just like he knows that he's totally worth the expulsion. The question is whether or not Misha agrees.

Beyond the door, the bell tolls twice. And Jensen asks with his eyes.

Misha takes with both hands, greedy and groping before Jensen registers the answer. After two weeks without any real human contact, the crush of Misha against him, the curve of Misha’s thigh thrust into the space between his is intoxicating. Jensen pushes back because he has to; the open door six inches to his left makes his heart thump harder when he gathers Misha’s wrists together to press them to stone. The thought they might get caught, might get run off the property by a gang of scandalized monks, heightens his already heightened senses.

This close he can smell the weird hippie soap Misha uses mingling with his sweat, hear the rustle of fabric as Misha works himself closer. And it isn’t until that moment that Jensen realizes how much he’s always depended on words – empty words – to tell him whether he’s getting anywhere. With them taken away, he learns to listen to Misha’s body, teaches himself to render meaning from the arch of spine and the flutter that quickens beneath his hands. They bend to each other, the sacred silence filled with ragged breath and punctuated by barely contained cries.

It doesn’t last. Can’t possibly, here. It’s too new and too much. Less than five minutes in, he feels the storm kick up at the base of his spine and then he’s spilling a spectacularly sticky mess into his boxers, coming undone thanks to the graceful arch of Misha’s hipbone. Misha trips across the edge after, when the endless shuffle of sandal to sand pauses just outside. Jensen feels teeth, feels the full-body lock as Misha rides it out against his thigh.

It makes him feel thirteen again, because _Jesus_ they didn’t get to skin. Not even close.

When Misha slips into the shadows with a sly, sated smile, it also makes him feel invincible.

***

They hang on to the quiet longer than they must – through the trip into Chaiya and a long night spent riding the rails back into Bangkok. Jensen can’t tell if it’s by mutual agreement or if Misha’s just fucking with him. It’s probably a little of both, but he doesn’t care.

By the time they check into their suite at the Shangri-La, his only mission in life is to make Misha scream.


End file.
